


Hot In Here

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pulled something in my back, some cuts and bruises.  Heard the call and it was on my way home, so I went over for back-up.  The news always blows things outta proportion, you're the one who's always telling me that.  I'll be fine, kid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot In Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest Round Ten, prompt "officer down" and for LJ's sexy-right community, prompt "Is it hot in here, or am I just scared to death?"

When John hasn't shown up by six, Matt is mildly annoyed. By six fifteen, he's progressed to angry. When the clock hits six thirty and the casserole is a giant sludgy congealed mess, he's officially fucking pissed.

He's pissed because John instituted this stupid every-other-day cooking rule in the first place. He's pissed because when it's his turn John makes him cook with actual _food_ , instead of just letting him order Thai and call it good. He's pissed because it took him three fucking hours to make the damn casserole and John can't even bother to get home on time to eat it, even though he _promised_ to be home by six.

He's pissed because _being pissed_ makes him feel like he's the goddamn wife in some freakass weird pseudo-relationship with the dude who's just letting him crash in the spare room for a couple of fucking months.

Matt scowls at the damn casserole and grabs a beer from the fridge, flops onto the sofa in front of the TV. He'd put the local news on for John earlier – not that he's fucking here to watch it – and now the perky blonde newscaster's voice is like an icepick in his ear. Fire in Queens, gas prices continuing to rise, murder in the city, officer down in Brooklyn, blah blah blah…

Wait.

Matt sits up on the sofa and hastily grabs for the remote, turns up the sound just as the picture flicks to one of the Ken Doll reporters standing on a typical suburban street.

 _"… in this normally quiet neighbourhood. At this point, police have not released the name of the victim, but local residents tell us that the house has been rented for the last few months by a local dockworker and his family. Police have confirmed that several officers were injured when responding to what they are calling 'an altercation' between the victim and his assailant. Lieutenant Tyler Briggs remains in hospital with non-life-threatening injuries, while Detective John McClane, best known for his role in averting the Fire Sale disaster several months ago, has been treated and released. Back to you, Sarah."_

Matt is already dialing the precinct when the picture returns to the newsroom. John's extension doesn't answer. Neither does Kowalski's. The switchboard gives him fuck all. He has no idea what hospital John would have been taken to, and even if he did they wouldn't be able to tell him anymore than the newscast did.

He's pretty much worn a strip from the carpet and torn out a chunk of hair and is considering raiding John's desk drawer to get his ex's number to ask her what _she_ did when John was injured in the line of duty – which is a really fucking stupid idea, but it's all he's got – when he hears the key in the lock. He tosses his cell in the general direction of the sofa and makes it to the hall just as John is shucking off his jacket.

"Jesus," he says.

John glances up, wincing as he stretches out a hand to hang the leather on the peg by the door. "Nope, just me," he says. "Sorry I'm late, kid. Got hung up."

"Holy _fuck_ , John," Matt says. He tries to take it all in – the blooming bruise on his cheekbone, fresh raw lacerations on his scalp, the gauze bandage peeking out from beneath the sleeve of the T-shirt – and can only gape, wide mouthed.

John waves a hand to get Matt to let him pass, glances down at his own body and grimaces as he does so. "It ain't as bad as it looks."

"Not as bad as it…" Matt shakes his head, follows him into the living room. "You were on the news, McClane! They said _officer down_ , they said you were being treated at the hospital but they didn't say which hospital and I couldn't get any information, no one was answering and the main line wouldn't tell me _shit_ and—"

"Whoa," John says. "Kid."

"—there should really be some kind of emergency number because I was at the point where I was going to call Holly and you can imagine what—"

"Matt," John says loudly.

John rarely raises his voice, unless it's to yell at him to "turn off that goddamn racket" like Flyleaf isn't the second fucking coming, so it's enough now to cut through the haze of worry that blanked out his mind and put his mouth on double-time. He swallows down the rest of the words, swipes a hand through his hair. "Hey," he says.

John grins... it's a little lopsided and a little weary, but he'll take it. "Hey."

"Are you okay?"

John again glances down at the state of his body, flicks a finger at the ragged and dirty sleeve of his shirt. "Gonna need a new T-shirt," he says.

"Jesus," Matt says again. He steps closer, raises a hand toward John's scalp but lets it hover in the air when John eyes him warily. "Fuck, McClane," he says, eyeing the new scratches against the old scars, "pretty soon we're gonna be able to play tic tac toe on your head."

When John huffs out a laugh, Matt lets his hand move, barely a whisper of touch on John's head. "Seriously," he says, "are you okay?"

John lifts a shoulder. "Pulled something in my back, some cuts and bruises. Heard the call and it was on my way home, so I went over for back-up. The news always blows things outta proportion, you're the one who's always telling me that. I'll be fine, kid."

Matt blinks. It comes to him suddenly, stupidly, that this is what John _does_. Every day. Not just when some sociopath with a messiah complex decides he's going to mess with the infrastructure, but every single fucking day. McClane can joke that he just "catches bad guys" but what that means is putting himself in the line of fire, taking risks, maybe taking a bullet to save somebody else.

It means that every day on the job could be his last, and that's just unacceptable, that's insane, that's—

Matt has no idea that he's going to do it. One moment he's looking in John's eyes, the palm of his hand lightly cupping the back of John's shorn scalp, and the next moment he's surging forward. He briefly registers John's eyes widening in surprise and then their lips are smashing together, and it's awkward and graceless and ridiculous and he wouldn't take it back for the world.

"Holy shit," John says when they part.

"You know what," Matt says, "I don't even care if you punch me in the nose right now. You could have _died_ , John! Not that that's why I kissed you, because it's not, it's just that you… you _could die_ and you'd never know that every day I think about you and think about doing this and I spent three hours making fucking _cheese casserole_ because you mentioned once that you like it and—"

This time it's John who steps forward, and while the kiss is still tentative it's also a lot less awkward and involves a lot more tongue. Matt's hand smoothes over the back of John's head, curls at the back of his neck to hold him in place, but when John's own hand settles with a clumsy thump on his hip he actually jumps. He opens his eyes, blinks stupidly at John who, for his part, blinks stupidly back.

"I didn't know you were—"

"I'm not."

"I didn't know you liked—"

"I don’t."

Matt glances between their bodies before raising his head to quirk a brow. "I beg to differ," he says.

"Holy shit."

"Okay," Matt says. The last thing he wants to do is let go, but he forces himself to release his grip on John, to take a step back and put some deliberate space between them. Clearly someone has to be the level-headed one here. Clearly someone has to ignore the giant boner in his jeans and the way it feels to have John McClane pressed against him chest to chest and John McClane's tongue in his mouth and… yeah, okay, thinking like that only makes the giant boner worse.

He swipes a hand through his hair, takes another breath. "Okay," he says again. "If this is, like, all new to you and shit, we should probably… talk."

"You talk too much, kid," John says. But he doesn't make any of his patented grab-and-tug super-cop moves to drag him back into his orbit like Matt remembers from the fire sale, so despite his words Matt figures that John is actually in agreement.

"Well," Matt starts, "the first thing is, if this is just some kind of, like, matinee for you or something—"

"Matinee?"

"If you're just all _I almost got killed so I'm hot and horny and this guy will do_ , you know? So it's a one night thing and then tomorrow it never happened and everything's weird—"

"Oh, everything's weird," John says. "But if you think I would just want a…" he screws up his face and waves one meaty hand in the air, "…a 'matinee', then you don't know me at all, Matthew."

Matt breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay. Good. Because I really sort of like you, McClane."

"I really sort of like you too, kid."

"And this could be really good."

"It could," John agrees.

Matt means to keep his distance, he really does, but somehow he finds himself up close and personal again even though he doesn't remember moving. He has time to think that maybe John just has some kind of internal Matt-magnet that draws him in, and then he realizes that his hand is flat on John's chest. The thump of John's heart seems extra fast under the press of his palm, but that doesn't stop John from taking the final step that brings them flush together again, or from raising a rough-hewn hand to cup his chin, or from leaning in to brush their lips together.

It's still soft, still hesitant, but Matt lets John take the lead. The gentle, almost chaste slide of lips seems to last forever before John finally licks his way inside, and when he does Matt can't help the moan that escapes, feels John smile against his lips before he deepens the kiss. It's still not exactly pornographic – there's no dueling tongues or gasping breaths or frantic clutching – but Matt's pretty sure it's the best kiss he's ever had, just easy and sweet and _right_. In fact, he feels like he could stand here forever, bad leg notwithstanding, just stand in the middle of John's messy living room and kiss him and then die pretty damn happy.

He lets his hand dip down, raises the hem of John's shirt to find warm, smooth, extremely touchable skin. John's stomach muscles clench under his touch and he soothes them with his fingers, wants to slide down John's body and do the same with his tongue; contents himself for now with leaving the warm skin reluctantly behind, skimming agile fingers over belt buckle instead and then cupping his palm over the growing bulge in John's levis.

"Holy shit," John gasps out, wrenching their mouths apart.

Okay, so the kiss – which is really astounding, he can't get over it really – has made Matt kind of fuzzy but he blinks, tries to focus. "John?"

John scrubs a hand over his head as he takes a step back, laughs shakily. "Is it hot in here, or am I just scared to death?"

Matt chokes out a laugh. John's pupils are blown wide, his lips red and swollen, and Matt knows he must look the same. His pulse is pounding, too, and he can't help but think that if he's this turned on by a kiss, when they get around to actually fucking he's probably going to have a heart attack right on the spot.

He blinks again, watches as John takes two long strides away and puffs out his chest in one of those get-my-head-on-straight kind of breaths. And sure, John's eyes are lust-dark, but they're also just a shade this side of panicked.

"Too much?" Matt asks. Because, okay, it's not freaky to him – it's actually his number one fantasy come to life, he's lost track of how many times he's jerked off in that little spare bedroom to thoughts of John – but he also known he plays both side of the fence since he was ten and got equally flustered by both Meghan Halloway _and_ her brother Zach. From all indications John's been strictly straight since dinosaurs walked the earth, so. "We can… wait?" he suggests. "If you want. Take it slow."

John scrubs a hand over his chin, and when his eyes meet Matt's they are part embarrassed, part chagrined. "That might be best."

"It's not like we've got to rush it or anything."

"You're right, kid. And I've got… " John waves a hand in the general direction of his back, and Matt feels a twinge of guilt for forgetting, even briefly, what brought on this whole thing in the first place. "So I probably can't—"

"Right," Matt says. His dick has other ideas, but he swoops both hands through his hair and reminds himself that this is John McClane and even though this whole thing just started it's something he wants to _last_ because… he might more than sort of like the guy. He might actually be halfway to being in love with him, and this morning a kiss was in the realm of the impossible and look what's already happened. So if McClane needs to take it slow, then that's what they'll do. He can just do the multiplication tables in his head until his dick behaves itself or something.

"So," he says. "Maybe I'll try to reheat that cassero—"

"Hey," John says.

Aaaand there's that grab-and-tug that he remembers so well. One moment he's walking toward the kitchen, the next one of John's arms is wrapped snugly around his waist and his other hand is cupping his face, one thumb rubbing across his cheekbone. Whenever John looks him straight in the eye it's unnerving, those sharp green eyes always seem like they can see everything, but now it's intense in a different way, a way that sends a shiver down his spine. And when John kisses him again, he's suddenly aware of exactly what infinite possibilities may await. He just has to learn a little patience.

"We won't wait too long," John says.

Coming from John McClane, it's a promise. And – except when injured dockworkers are involved – he always keeps his promises.


End file.
